Sometimes
by WingedPegasus
Summary: Riza gets a particularly bad case of the flu and Roy takes care of her. Total fluffy sickfic with a healthy dose of ship. (Angsty ship, because, well, it's these two.)
1. Chapter 1

(Thanks to rebeccacatalinas and the-flame-and-hawks-eye for betaing!)  
Previously titled "In Sickness and in Health." Wasn't wild about the title, and changed it after finishing chapter 2. :)

* * *

Roy threw down his pen and sighed, leaning back in his chair to study the clock. 10:02. His least favorite part of being an officer would always be the paperwork, and that particular task had seemed to triple in the wake of the Promised Day. The rumors circulating of his coming promotion to general did nothing to alleviate his dissatisfaction with the task. Of course, he was thrilled to come one step closer to his ultimate goal, but an inner part of him quailed at the prospect of even _more_ papers to sign.

His eyes drifted over the office, passing over Fuery and Falman hard at work, Havoc and Breda's empty chairs—out doing fieldwork, the lucky sods—before finally coming to rest on Lieutenant Hawkeye. Watching Hawkeye work was one of the small, secret pleasures of daily office life. He often found his eyes wandering up from his work until they found his Lieutenant, leaning over her own papers in ardent concentration, a few wisps of blond hair hanging over her face. He would sit entranced, wishing he could brush the errant strands away and lose himself in her eyes, until she sensed him looking and fixed him with a glare that could freeze a furnace.

It was the highlight of his day.

Today, however, something was… off. Instead of leaning over her work in concentration, his Lieutenant had her head propped against her left fist, pen pressed against paper but motionless. Her normally sharp and lively eyes stared unfocused at the work before her. His gaze narrowed, observing the unnatural flush of her cheeks, the hint of sweat glistening on her brow.

Just as he was about to say something, she pushed her chair back and walked calmly in the direction of the restrooms. He muttered some excuse and left the office to follow her.

* * *

Riza gripped the sides of the sink as if the cold porcelain was her only anchor to reality. Cool water, warmed by the heat of her face, dripped down into the sink below and mingled with the stream from the faucet as it swirled down the drain. This was not good. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this sick. It hadn't been this bad this morning, had it? Somehow a tingle in the throat and an ache in her bones had become uncontrollable shivers and waves of nausea crashing over her, distorting her vision and dulling all senses except dizziness and the too-loud thumping of her own heart. Through her fog, she was dimly aware of the door opening and a form passing through. She bowed her head and took a deep breath, trying to center herself.

"You look like hell," a voice said from directly behind her. A distinctly male voice. She turned sharply then winced at the motion, screwing her eyes shut until the pain in her head subsided. When had the pressure in her head gotten so intense? She opened her eyes to see her colonel's affable smirk fading, his eyes tight with concern.

"Sir?" she realized she was still grasping the sink behind her like a lifeline and pushed away. "You shouldn't be in here, Colonel. It's the ladies' bathroom." She straightened her posture and tried to smooth her uniform in an attempt to look functional. It was betrayed by the fact that she was unable to keep from subtly swaying.

"You should go, sir," she insisted. "The typists use this bathroom. You'll scare them off."

The colonel stepped forward and placed his hand on her back, stopping a particularly dangerous-looking lean and pulling her securely against his chest. His muscle-hardened, warm chest. Was it really that warm, or was that just the heat of her face reflecting off of him?

"I don't care," he said. Her flushed face turned a few shades redder, and she raised her hands to push away even as the colonel's arm tightened around her.

"Colonel, what are you—"

"Don't worry, Lieutenant," Mustang said as he reached around her with his other arm to shut off the faucet. "I simply don't want to see one of my subordinates in the hospital because they cracked their head on a bathroom floor. It would be embarrassing for my command."

He released her from his grasp but kept a steadying hand on her arm. A fleeting, traitorous feeling of disappointment passed through Riza's mind at the lessened contact. She was in the middle of questioning her own sanity when she realized the colonel had guided her out of the bathroom and onto a bench outside the door, and was now flagging down a passing private.

"Call a cab for the Lieutenant," he ordered.

The young man glanced at her, then back to the colonel. "Right away, sir," he said with a snappy salute. Wow. From the way he scurried off, she really must look terrible.

"That's not necessary, sir," she protested. "I'll be fine in a moment-"

"Like hell you will," he interrupted. "You never should have come into work today."

Her eyes widened slightly at the hint of anger behind his outburst. How could she go home? She needed to protect him. It was her job. Her duty. Her life. Nevermind the fact that she couldn't see straight. If her mind were clearer, she would recognize the illogic of the situation, but it was difficult to reason through the bale of cotton stuffed in her head.

"Sir..." she began.

"Lieutenant. You are to go home and rest until you are well. That's an order."

Riza gave a sigh of resignation, finding she couldn't even muster the energy to salute. "Yes, sir."

* * *

As much as she hated to admit it, the colonel was probably right to send her home. The cab ride home passed in a fuzzy haze. She faintly recalled the relief of leaning her too-hot head against the cold glass of the window, then waving off the cabby's concern as he dropped her off outside her apartment building. Her mind was a complete blank as to how she had gotten up the stairs and inside her apartment. Belatedly, she patted her pocket to find the key. Had she even locked the door when she left that morning?

Black Hayate circled her legs, whimpering worriedly. Fighting the urge to sink down to the floor and sleep right where she was, she shuffled over to the sofa and sat down heavily, unbuttoning her uniform jacket. She had only half-removed the jacket when the siren call of the cushions became too much, and she slumped over in a deep sleep.

* * *

Roy sat in his third entirely unnecessary meeting of the day, index finger impatiently tapping on his leg underneath the table. His eyes flitted to the clock in the corner for the hundredth time. Four hours. It had been four hours since he'd sent his lieutenant home in a cab, too sick to think straight. He'd told her to call if she got any worse, but, well, it was _her._ And what if she couldn't? What if she got too sick to even reach the phone? Roy's finger-tapping graduated to full-on leg bounce before he noticed and stilled himself. He knew he couldn't leave in the middle of a meeting without raising a few important eyebrows, but heaven help him if he wasn't considering it.

" _Just a little longer,"_ he thought. " _Hang on."_

As soon as his last meeting ended, Roy entered his office just long enough to drop yet another newly acquired pile of paperwork on his inbox and lock his desk.

"Falman."

The man looked up. "Sir?"

"I'm leaving early today," the colonel announced, striding across the room to pick up his coat. "Make whatever excuses you have to."

"But sir-" the man started to protest.

"It's important," Roy cut him off. "I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

 _Bang bang bang._

Roy knocked on the door to the apartment again, shifting his weight impatiently. _Come on, open up,_ he thought to himself. The longer he waited, the more ridiculous images flitted through his mind. Riza, laying on the floor. Unconscious. Maybe she hit her head when she fell, maybe she's bleeding, maybe she's covered in blood from her neck and it won't stop and she's dying... he caught himself and shook his head. No. That didn't happen. She's alive. This was just the flu, for goodness sake; his lieutenant could probably glare the virus into submission.

Still.

He hesitated just a moment, then placed his hand on the doorknob to test the lock. He felt a brief rush of combined relief and apprehension when it turned.

The apartment was dark. All the shades were drawn for privacy, and if she was here, she hadn't turned on any lights.

"Lieutenant?" he called. Black Hayate swiftly padded over to him.

"Hey, boy," Mustang knelt down to the canine's level and stroked his head. "Where's your master?" Black Hayate whimpered slightly and began to pace between Roy and the couch. The furniture faced away from him, but he thought he could see a form in the dim light.

"Lieutenant?" he called again, striding over to the sofa. There she was, half-sitting, half-lying on the couch. Fear entered his heart like a cold knife. Why hadn't she heard him knocking? He dropped to his knees in front of the couch, eyes adjusting to the darkness. She was lying in what could not be a comfortable position, arms tangled in the military jacket that had only come off of one shoulder. At some point her hair clip had come undone, and a few strands of blonde hair brushed her flushed face.

"Lieutenant," he said again. "Lieutenant, can you hear me?"

* * *

" _-ant? ...tenant!"_ a distant voice stirred Riza's consciousness, and she began to swim up through heavy layers of sleep. Both the voice and her body felt far, far away. The more awake she became, the worse she felt—but that voice. That voice was important to her. And it sounded... worried. She tried to move and speak, but her body wouldn't obey. Despite the shouted commands in her own head to " _get up, say something," s_ he only felt her head move slightly, and heard the faraway, raspy "Mmm" of her own voice.

The shoulder she didn't realize he had been shaking stilled, and she heard a soft, almost breathless sigh of relief.

She was almost fully awake now, and she wished she wasn't. A thousand aches and pains crashed into her senses, dulled only slightly by a sense of faraway muzziness she knew would not fade. She knit her brow together and forced her eyes open, biting back a groan at the throbbing ache in her head. A familiar face swam into focus through her heavy-lidded eyes.

"...Colonel?" she whispered, voice thick with sleep.

"Lieutenant," he replied softly. Her eyes slipped shut again, but the image of his slight smile and worried eyes persisted in her mind. A gentle hand placed itself on her forehead, and she found herself leaning into the cool touch. For a moment… just for a moment…

Distantly, she heard the voice again. "-re burning up. I'm taking you to the hospital."

The statement filtered through her foggy mind, then slapped her almost fully to awareness. With a sudden burst of energy, she pushed herself up on one elbow and grabbed his sleeve as he stood to reach the telephone.

"No, sir," she panted at the exertion and sudden burst of adrenaline. Her fingers twisted in his sleeve as her grip tightened. "Please."

She wasn't sure when she started hating hospitals. Maybe it was after Ishval, when he had carried her in and ordered the doctors to treat her back; desperate and pleading and terrified he had burned too much, swearing them to secrecy with a desperate malice in his eyes. Maybe it was after a failed assassination attempt on Roy—a failure for the sniper, who left him alive, and failure for her, because _he_ was the one left bleeding from a hole in his chest and fighting for his life instead of her. Hospitals meant nothing but terrible things, and she wouldn't let a simple illness be the reason for entering one.

"Let me stay here," she said.

She couldn't see his face, but she could hear the gentle disagreement in his tone. "Lieutenant, you can't even sit up-"

She released her grip on his sleeve and pushed herself fully upright, pausing as the rapid rush of blood from her head tinged her vision gray. Roy grabbed her shoulder to steady her, then took an involuntary step backward when she raised her head to glare at him. Even with a flushed face and brow covered in a sheen of sweat, that glare could strike fear in the hearts of men.

"Lieutenant..." he started, then pinched his brow and sighed. "All right," he reluctantly agreed. "But you need to get in your actual bed."

She nodded, immediately regretting the motion as a stab of pain shot through her temples. Her feet moved into position as she prepared to stand up, but then she sighed reluctantly and raised a hand toward him.

"Colonel, could you..." He wordlessly stepped forward and grasped her arm, pulling her to her feet as she pushed herself off the sofa. Almost immediately, her face turned several shades whiter and her legs buckled. He caught her under the arms, then swept one arm behind her legs to lift her in his grasp..

"Are you all right?" he asked. He could feel her trying to regulate her uneven breathing in his arms.

"Sorry, Colonel," she almost whispered, her head resting heavily against his chest. His grip involuntarily tightened, and he wished for a spare hand to smooth the hair away from her face, for the freedom to press a comforting kiss to her head. Instead, he fixed his gaze straight ahead and tried to ignore the heat of her, the way her hair tickled his neck, and most of all how _right_ it felt to have her in his arms.

"Nothing to apologize for, Lieutenant."


	2. Chapter 2

It was a short walk to the bedroom. He deposited her gently in a sitting position at the edge of her bed, realizing with a faint sense of apprehension that she couldn't sleep in her uniform. He glanced around the room and spotted a set of women's pajamas folded on the dresser. He brought them over and set them on the bed.

She hadn't moved from where he put her, half-closed eyes dully fixed on the floor. Before he could stop to consider whether it was appropriate—or if he cared—he knelt in front of her and reached for the buckle of her shoulder holster. Her hand covered his.

"I can do it," she said, trying to add a determined edge to her voice. It was difficult when she couldn't manage to speak much louder than a whisper.

"I know," he responded softly. "But you don't have to."

Her hand dropped away.

It was quick work for him to remove the holsters and unhook the odd half-skirt that covered their uniform trousers. As he was working her last boot free, he felt her head come to rest on his shoulder, spreading heat into his skin through his jacket and shirt. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and into his face, her soft breath so close to his ear, and for a moment all he could see, hear, smell or think about was her.

"Thank you." The words were so quiet he almost missed them, but the closeness of her voice sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.

Not trusting himself to speak, he reached a hand up and rested it like a gentle caress on the back of her head. Lingering only a moment, he rose to his feet and pulled the set of pajamas he had found closer.

"Can you change?" he asked. She nodded slowly. He didn't quite trust the answer, but the alarms he had been steadily ignoring in the back of his mind shouted that helping his subordinate change would go beyond any strained definition of propriety.

"I'll be right outside," he said, leaving the room. True to his word, he waited just outside the door, practically holding his breath and hoping he wouldn't hear her fall. When enough time had passed, he cautiously swung the door open and looked inside. She had managed to change and pull back the sheets before falling asleep. As he gently pulled the covers up to her shoulders, Black Hayate jumped up on the bed and nestled near his master, letting out a quiet _whuff_.

Roy glanced at the small dog and couldn't help but feel a small pang of jealousy at how simple it was for him to be near her; how effortlessly he could express his affection. He almost laughed at that. The great Colonel—nearly General—Mustang, Flame Alchemist, envious of a tiny dog. He reached down and adjusted the covers slightly. In her sleep, Riza's breathing harshened and her brow knit together against against some unseen pain. His heart dropped. He hated seeing her like this, how powerless he felt to help her.

" _Food,"_ he thought. " _And medicine."_ That, at least, was something he could do.

* * *

Some time and several colorful curses later, Roy had prepared a tray of water, broth, and some painkillers he'd found in a cabinet. (The rice porridge had been an abject failure. He might not be an expert chef, but he'd never seen it turn black like that before. He'd have to buy her a new bag of rice… and possibly a new pot.)

Not wishing to disturb her sleep, he rounded the corner as silently as possible—and was surprised to see her eyes open, tracking his movements as she absently rubbed Black Hayate's head. The dog seemed very pleased with himself, the lucky devil. He smiled and set the tray down on the bedside table, then sat on the edge of the bed before he could stop to consider whether it was a good idea.

He scanned her features. Despite somehow managing to look pale and flushed at the same time, her eyes were brighter and more alert. Well, truth be told, the fact that her eyes were open at all was an improvement. He didn't miss that even though she was awake, she hadn't pushed herself upright.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine, sir," she said automatically.

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

She rolled her eyes and gave in. "Fine. Like I was run over by a truck."

Roy suppressed the urge to laugh at the unexpectedly honest answer. "What hurts?"

Now Riza's eyebrow twitched upward. "It'd be faster to tell you what doesn't. Sir," she tacked on. She sighed. "Joints, mostly."

"Well, that's to be expected at your age," the colonel said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

He was rewarded with a glare. "May I remind you, _sir_ , that you are older than I am?"

"And yet as fresh as a daisy," he said cheerfully. Even if she was still weak, the fact that she had improved enough to tease him was wonderful.

She grumbled something unintelligible and moved to push herself upright. Roy caught the slight grimace in her expression and the tremble in her arms, and swiftly looped an arm around her back to help her up.

"Colonel, that's not necess-"

"Relax, Lieutenant," he said. "That's an order." He quickly stacked the pillows so she could lean back in a sitting position, then picked up the glass of water. "Here, you must be thirsty."

She took the glass gratefully. Her hand shook under its weight—or perhaps that was the fever, Roy thought, noting the gooseflesh on her partially exposed arm despite the warmth of the room—but she managed to drink half the water before passing back the glass. He placed it back on the tray.

"Broth?" he offered.

She eyed the bowl suspiciously. "Sorry, sir. I can't eat your cooking."

He raised an eyebrow. "Can't?"

He caught a glint in her eye as her mouth twitched upward. "I'm under strict orders not to die."

He tilted his head back and laughed, drawing his free hand across his face in embarrassment. "You smelled that, did you?"

"I suspect the whole floor can, sir."

He chuckled. "I don't understand how something as simple as rice porridge can go so wrong. Even Black Hayate wouldn't touch the stuff."

"If you feed that to my dog, sir, I'll shoot you," she said politely.

Roy laughed again, enjoying the light teasing with all his heart. He'd burn a thousand meals if it meant spending more time with his lieutenant.

"Don't worry, Lieutenant. The broth came from a can, all I did was warm it. I don't think even I can mess that up."

"Even so, sir, I'll pass. But I appreciate it."

He glanced at her, realizing she must have a reason to turn it down other than his admittedly appalling cooking skills.

"Nauseous?"

She closed her eyes and sighed reluctantly. "Even the water made me queasy."

He nodded. "Take these, at least," he said, handing her the two painkillers. The fact that she didn't argue was a true testament to how badly she felt.

As she attempted to wash them down with a sip of water, one of the small pills caught in her sore throat and she inhaled water. She immediately pitched forward in a violent coughing fit. Pain wracked her body with each cough, aching muscles and pounding head and lack of oxygen causing her vision to gray at the edges. Roy's hand hovered helplessly behind her, his face twisted in concern. After a few terrible moments, the coughing finally subsided and she sagged back into his arm, gasping raggedly for breath.

Not wishing to press her into speaking, Roy gently squeezed her arm. The gesture was to reassure himself as much as her. As her heavy breaths started to regain more control, his eye caught a thin, silvery mark on her neck, just above the collar of her shirt. Her scar. It should be much larger, really; an ugly, gaping thing that nearly took her life, but May's alkahestry had shrunk the wound.

It was bad enough this way.

"Does it hurt?" he found himself asking.

Riza's eyes darted up to him immediately at the soft hoarseness of his tone. His gaze was fixed on her neck.

Oh.

She dropped her gaze for a moment and concentrated on breathing. She didn't want to tell him how the scar still pulled when she turned her head, how the swelling in her sore throat made it ache and burn, how sometimes, when she awoke in the night, her hands flew to her throat to staunch the flow of blood that was no longer there.

Exhausted, she let her head fall the short distance to rest on his chest, and felt more than heard his breath catch at the motion. This wasn't the time for lies.

"Sometimes."

She didn't have to see his eyes to know they were swirling with the same mix of emotions she felt. Deep down, she knew that even acknowledging their most selfish impulses would ruin them both, but she found herself too tired to care. Too tired to fight the other voice, the quietest one in her mind, the one that said " _This isn't the colonel. This is Roy. The boy you knew as a child. The man you love more than your own life."_

She reached for his free hand and took it in her own, gently drawing her thumb over the thick white scar marring its center. She knew the hand currently wrapped around her back bore a similar mark.

"And you?"

Roy found he couldn't speak. He was keenly aware of her warmth in his arms, her hand holding his, the sensation of her thumb brushing over his sensitive skin and sense-dulled scar. He was overcome by the desire to stay there forever with her in his arms, not colonel and lieutenant, not officer and subordinate, just... them. Roy and Riza. The way they should be. The way they might never be. He wondered, not for the first time, if his vision for the future was worth it at all if she could not be at his side.

He swallowed thickly.

"Sometimes."

She hummed. Her thumb had stopped drawing small circles on his hand, but she had yet to release it.

The touch burned into his hand.

They sat that way for a small eternity, neither wishing to move, neither needing to speak.

But the dream couldn't last forever. Eventually, he felt her breathing become even and slow. Pressing his reluctant muscles into motion, Roy gently laid her back to rest on the pillows. His hand lingered on her arm as he slowly withdrew, communicating through touch what he could not through words.

"Good night, my Lieutenant," he whispered.

As his hand passed hers, she grasped it. Her eyes drifted open for a moment to meet his, and the softness there told him all he needed.

 _I love you too._

* * *

Now comes the part where I shamelessly beg you to leave a review if you liked it. Or if you didn't like it. I can take criticism. *sniffs back tears* :p

Honestly though, I'd love to hear your thoughts since it's my first time writing for FMA (and my first time writing anything this blatantly shippy, lol)

Thanks for getting this far! :)


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